Sunday, May 14, 2017

Here it is again: that day when you recognize, acknowledge, and hopefully not embarass, the woman who bore you, raised you, nurtured you.......or signed all those payments you racked up when you were a kid and didn't realize your part time job would not cover the fact that you did not have a long distance plan on your brand new phone - a fact you discovered much to your shock, after an all-night conversation with your best friend, about that guy with the weird hair who played drums for the Bay City Rollers, who everyone dreamed about kissing, and ended up getting a condition called "parched paper lips" from pretending to do so repeatedly on a magazine cover. (See shared payments on Father's Day.) Many or all of the achievements noted above may not apply to the woman you regard as mother.....but many will.

But who is a mother? Why do we venerate them? What constitutes a "Mother"?

The answer is different for different people.

I am told, for instance that a "mother" is a far more venerated term, held sacredly, and truly appreciated, in comparison to the word "bitch". And although in these modern days, we frequently hear, in colourful vernacular outbursts, terms LINKED with the word "mother" , (and, often, many other words which she would probably not appreciate), most of your mothers will be the first to tell you that she is nobody's bitch. And, frankly...we believe her. We have begun to notice it, aggravatingly, in ourselves......like the penchant for going to work we just can't seem to shake, (also shared by our fathers), insisting on showering at least twice weekly (except during droughts, when the washcloth flick and fly lends deference to the latest cucumber and green pepper push for resources....not that we're entirely convinced that that IS, indeed, what they're growing out there....but....) Anyway...we have begun to notice, many of us, despite all manner of soul-destroying episodes in our lives, a sort of insistence on being ourselves that is annoyingly reminiscent of when we were young, and were told, "Be yourself". Apparently, our brains subliminally insisted on absorbing this message, despite the best efforts of our screaming hormones to be exactly like everyone else, so we could do something called "fitting in". Casting our collective minds back, we realized that, indeed, none of us, after all, were Borg, and that it was BECAUSE all of us had minds, that Nellie McClung lives in history, and, also, some of us have been known to wear loose clothing and no bra when no one else is around to remind us that we don't point towards the sky, weather-vane like, quite as perkily as we used to, without the extra armour, anymore. That we really don't care that much, frankly, is a testament to all the cash we have spent pouring over plastic versions of ourselves that we finally agreed totally disagreed with our mother's admonishments that we needed to "be ourselves". It seems that that reality is not completely repulsive to everyone, after all - particularly when we decide vehemently not to join the ranks of "jam it into a size smaller so we can sprout that mid-range missile Muffin top that screams double shifts and being grateful for the late night window at Wendy's". We reject the stick and large ball on top silhouette of ourselves with studied defiance, rediscovering both the idea that it's okay that we have actual breasts, and that the world has not ended because this means we just can't wear that shit with spaghetti straps, like our pixie-shaped relatives. Ours is a Rosie Riveter love, and the Men of the Deeps will still love us. Or at least stay smart enough to fake it, as long as we pay the hydro bill. Thus, on this day of days, we wish for our Mothers happiness, like many other important traits we have had nurtured in us by strong women, capable women, and God-fearing women (Joan of Arc, for instance, proved that she was less nuts than anyone on the field, but was still a little pissed that many of her cohorts in achieving Greatness were a little nervous around her, just because she actually admitted to asking for Guidance from the Lord - unlike everyone else, who insisted it was totally sissypants, but secretly did it anyway, just in case)

About Me

This author's book, "Rock Woman at Rest" is available at iuniverse.com, Sarnia, Ontario, "Cheeky Monkey Records", downtown Sarnia, and "The Stardust Lounge Bookstore", Sarnia, Ontario...and from the author, signed. "Poems from Butterscotch Cottage" available at iuniverse.com, "Cheeky Monkey Records", downtown Sarnia, and via the author, signed...
"Poems from Butterscotch Cottage" available through Xlibris.com bookstore, in person at "The Petrolia Bookstore", Petrolia, Ontario, "The Cheeky Monkey" records, downtown Sarnia, and from the author, signed with a personal message, if buying as a gift.
Both are available on loan from the Lambton County Library system, if you would like to read them for free, and can't afford your own copy.
Visit and sing along with her to "Throw Another Log on the Fire" at http://www.reverbnation.com/dawnmnevills#1
Original artwork for sale at http://www.ButterscotchCottage.vpweb.ca,
http://www.etsy.com/shop/DawnMNevills
or this website.
Contact:
DawnMNevills@butterscotchcottage.vpweb.ca
or
duty@brktel.on.ca
or
dawnmnevills@myspace.com
or
DawnMNevills@yahoo.com.ph